


There's Only So Much You Can Do

by missyay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Guilt, Post-Reichenbach, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missyay/pseuds/missyay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not about grief. Mycroft knows grief; his mother has died seven years ago. It may make him unwilling to move, it may make him feel heavy and dried up, but these feelings will eventually fade. This, however, is something entirely different. This is out of order, it’s tailspin, and he does not like it one bit. It is guilt, and guilt is the one thing Mycroft has never had to deal with before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first english fanfiction, so I'd be glad about any advice or information about mistakes I made!  
> I don't think you can possibly enjoy reading this even nearly as much as I enjoyed writing it, because I'm kind of in love with this language at the moment. But I hope you like it nevertheless!  
> Thanks to my wonderful beta Tori! :)

This is how it goes for Mycroft: He is in the middle of an important meeting with the Prime Minister, intending to subtly blackmail him into selecting another minister than he had in mind, when his assistant sends him a text. It consists of one word – _urgent –_ which, coming from her, can only mean _Sherlock has managed to get himself into a life-threatening situation_ , since she has been trusted with all incoming and outgoing phone calls of his brother’s. His phone rings (although Mycroft expressly asked his assistants not to call him during the meeting).

Mycroft answers it without invitation and turns away from the Prime Minister, raising an apologetic hand, and is immediately connected to his brother’s current phone call.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me”, he hears Sherlock say. He sounds choked, desperate in a way Mycroft has only ever witnessed when Sherlock was putting on a show. “Please, will you do this for me?”

 _Suicide (fake?),_ his mind hopefully suggests, _wind, so they’re outdoors, obviously no way to come close for Watson, yet they have eye-contact_ _. Cliff? Rooftop?_

Armanda texts him: _SH claims to be a fraud, location: Bart’s, apparently rooftop, not visible on any CCTV cameras, team on its way_

“Do what?”, John Watson asks back, obviously struggling to keep calm.

 _This is Sherlock_ , his mind points out _, so there is no way this is an act of guilt or depression. Not acting out of fear for his own life either; one cannot be threatened into committing suicide (especially not when one’s name is Sherlock Holmes). Something else then. Sherlock might be faking; he is most certainly capable to act desperate even at this level. Likelier, he trades his life for something of more value to him. John Watson’s life, James Moriarty’s death? Probably the former._

“This phone call”, Sherlock sounds as if he’s on the verge of tears. Mycroft does know that sound, it reminds him of Sherlock arguing with Mummy, of Sherlock at age thirteen, of angry Sherlock, or scheming Sherlock, but never, _never_ of Sherlock in actual despair. “It’s my note.”

Mycroft makes a decision and texts back: _Call them off. Look for snipers aiming at Doctor John Watson instead, kill them if possible, take pictures otherwise. Sherlock Holmes is not to be disturbed_

“It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.” There’s a touch of resignation to Sherlock’s voice now, which means either he’s faking this very thoroughly, or he’s actually about to sacrifice his life. And Mycroft doesn’t doubt Sherlock could be _able_ to express this amount of different feelings when not actually feeling them, he just doesn’t see why he’d bother.

“Leave a note, _when_ ”, Doctor Watson asks, unbelievingly, breathlessly.

“Goodbye, John.”

“No. Don’t – “

_Clatter._

The connection hasn’t been interrupted yet, Mycroft hears John drawing in a ragged breath, then - “ _SHERLOCK!”_

Then nothing. Mycroft hangs up and texts: _Check on him now._ His heart appears to be beating in a vacuum for a moment, struggling to keep the blood where it belongs.

When the moment is over, he turns to face the Prime Minister again.

“Apologies”, he offers, keeping his face blank very carefully, “there seems to have been a rather – important incident, I am afraid I have to leave, but I assure you that another meeting will be arranged in the near future.”

His phone vibrates. _Dead, according to emergency doctor. Confirmed by Doctor John Watson. Awaiting permission to investigate further_

The Prime Minister nods, shows a stern smile and guides him out of the room.

 _No further investigation necessary,_ he texts back. His numb fingers keep accidentally pressing the wrong keys, so it takes slightly longer than usual.

She replies with: _My sincerest condolences._

It’s the most personal thing she’s ever said to Mycroft, and he allows himself to stop and lean against the nearest wall for a moment.


	2. The Holmes Version of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft doesn't do hope, but he _does_ do possibilities.

After the incident, Mycroft knows what to do next for the first days. He takes advantage of his ability to stay calm when things get out of hand.

Armanda calls him mid-way home to announce, “We’ve found James Moriarty’s body on the rooftop. What shall we do? The police will be here in a few minutes, so if you intend to clear your brother’s name...”

Mycroft thinks, _at least it wasn’t pointless, so_ , and orders, “check if he really is dead, please. Be thorough.”

“He is quite dead. Hole-in-the-head-dead. I checked his pulse in three different places and his breath for two minutes continuously. So, do you want the area to be cleaned of evidence now? Once they’re in the building, it will be difficult to let the body disappear...”

“I do not intend to clear Sherlock’s name, Armanda. Let the police deal with him. In fact, why don’t you call them? Would make your presence on the rooftop a bit less suspicious, I believe.”

Mycroft is fairly sure that has interfered enough in his brother’s lifetime, but that’s not the reason he’s keeping his nose out now. (The reason is that this looks a lot like a plan to him; a self-sacrificing, hurriedly-made and less-than-perfect one, yes, but still a plan, so he leaves everything as it was.)

By the time he arrives at home, he is in control of himself again, so he proceeds to call his father. It’s one of the duties he’d rather delegate rather than handle it himself, because his father won’t care one way or another, and it’s really tempting to just let the police take over from there. But it is what he is expected to do, and Mycroft always does what he is expected to do.

So he texts Detective Inspector Lestrade, _there is no need to tell either me, or his father, about Sherlock’s death, I will take care of that. MH,_ because as much as he detests texts, a phone call would only end in awkwardness or condolences and Mycroft doesn’t think he can deal with either right now.

His father answers the phone immediately. “Mycroft, how are you?”

“Father.” His mind proposes the phrase _I’m afraid I have to tell you;_ Mycroft tells it to keep quiet. “It’s about Sherlock.”

“What has he managed to get himself into this time?” his father asks, exasperated. It has been years – decades, in fact, since Mycroft had to ask him for a favour on Sherlock’s behalf, but his father never quite forgot it.

Mycroft is not normally one to be easily annoyed (what with growing up with a mad genius for a brother), but this is an exceptional situation, so he allows himself to bite out in his coldest voice, “He’s dead. I’ve just been informed.”

His father is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft accepts the apology and hangs up shortly thereafter. His father doesn’t ask how and why, which doesn’t surprise him at all, and is very careful with Mycroft, which surprises him quite a lot. He has never been the most sensible of men.

With the most unpleasant task accomplished, he calls Armanda. Not bothering to wait for her to say anything, he asks, “What about those snipers now?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t been able to detect anyone due to the problematic situation”, she answers promptly, “I have, however, found the most suitable place for such purposes and saved the past six hours of the CCTV footage that shows the building’s entrance”

“Thank you, Armanda. You can save the file on my computer.”

While waiting for the file to appear, he proceeds to plan his brother’s funeral: He drafts invitations for people Sherlock would have wanted to show up, but carefully avoids those who might leak something to the press. Mycroft doesn’t like dealing with the press. They are manageable (of course they are, everyone is) but messy, unreasonable and it’s always a lot of work; not to mention that any mistake would most definitely lose him his position, likely even make the British system, as it is now, collapse.

He orders a both very expensive and very simple gravestone. He writes an oration and then burns it.

He looks at every frame of the six hours of footage and individually saves those that show a likely candidate, naming them after probability to have been the sniper.

He silences his mind and sleeps. He goes to work and apologises to the Prime Minister. He arranges a new meeting.

Oh, it isn’t easy? It’s just not a catastrophe, because he can think of it as a crisis. Crises pass, eventually. He is in a constant state of emergency, but at least he knows what to do.

When Mycroft comes home, he continues to work on the file, identifying and ruling out the less likely candidates, until he’s left with a core of five people whom he can’t identify. None of them show their face to the camera, and none of them show up in any other CCTV footage from that day in that proximity. What he can deduce from their clothing, hands and body, he writes down in a document, but he can’t help thinking that things will go a lot slower from now on. He’s hit a dead end; he will probably have to wait for the next move.

In a fit of sentimentalism, he changes the password that protects the file named, for lack of the sniper’s name, _Threat_John Watson_ , to the only password of his that Sherlock ever managed to find out. It is as good a protection as anything, now, he says to himself, so it doesn’t really matter.

What he _doesn’t_ do is run a DNA test on the corpse. He even declines the offer to see his brother’s face one last time, and also doesn’t check the footage of the last CCTV camera he passed. His orders are short, and he makes it clear that no questions are to be asked. The corpse is to be buried, and the certificate of death is to be issued for Sherlock Holmes. They think it’s a conspiracy of some sort (which they are quite used to), but it’s not. It’s just the Holmes version of hope.

Mycroft doesn’t do hope, but he _does_ do possibilities. And among ninety-nine possibilities without Sherlock, there is one with him coming back. One percent changes everything. Only one percent of a pug dog’s DNA is different than a wolf’s, and Mycroft doesn’t intend to trade his pug dog grief for full-grown wolf grief.

*

There are very few people at the funeral, and none of them talks to him.

Some of those who owed Sherlock an everlasting favour have showed up, all of them wearing suits and regretful expressions. Some of them smile at him wearily (those are the ones who haven’t had the pleasure yet) and all the others steer clear of him.

Missus Hudson nods in his general direction, but doesn’t come over. She doesn’t particularly like him, but that’s not what’s keeping her away. His expressionless face upsets her. She doesn’t know what to say – what do you say to an older brother? Especially when he doesn’t appear to be grieving?

DI Lestrade looks worn and guilty, his mouth a thin line. He avoids John because John might start a fight: The last time they met, Lestrade arrested his best friend, and he won’t have forgotten. He avoids Mycroft because – _oh,_ because Mycroft has informed him of Sherlock’s death in a text. He hadn’t thought about that. He does tend to know things before the police does, but at that moment, it hadn’t occurred to him. He considers apologising and fails to find the will.

John Watson is very pale and very upright, and he is also very decidedly not limping. He is angry and determined, and he is currently pitted against the world in general and against Mycroft in particular. A soldier, a tensioned spring, obviously looking for a fight, so Mycroft deduces his plans to move out of Baker Street without talking to him.

From there it’s a matter of simplest maths to the fact that it’ll be three months at most until Missus Hudson will have to start looking for new tenants.

It’s a simple decision, really.

He heads her off when she has left the funeral, catches up and calls, “Missus Hudson!”

“Oh, Mister Holmes”, she says, turning around, “Looking for a cab, too, are you?”

Her face is crumpled and she is still sniffling and avoiding his gaze, but she is also walking very slowly and constantly looking around for a bus stop or a cab. Her hip is bothering her again; she will probably accept.

“Not at all, Missus Hudson, it was you I was looking for,” he says smoothly, “let me take you home, would you?” One of his cars pulls up next to him and he opens the back door for her.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t have bothered”, she says, but she’s grown accustomed enough to his occasional kidnappings to not put any force behind her protest.

Mycroft gets in on the other side and sits down next to her. He scans her expression: pale but collected, tired but not devastated, sad but not depressed. She’s been through worse; she won’t take any major damage. Except maybe she will: death is something that skews his probabilities, it makes people behave unpredictably. It makes them crack up or shut down or stay unmoved until years after. Mycroft doesn’t like it. (Sherlock did.)

He decides to keep an eye on Missus Hudson anyway.

“Once Doctor Watson has moved out, I’d like to rent 221B Baker Street,”, he says softly, and as she opens her mouth to say something, he adds, “of course I won’t be living there, but I promise to take care of any problems that might occur. Otherwise, I would like to keep everything as it was.”

She looks out of the window for thirty-two seconds, then turns around and gives him a sad smile. “Yes, of course. I think it’s too early to think about new tenants for me anyway, and it’d be nice to –” her voice fails her, and she draws in a hasty breath. “You know”, she finishes vaguely.

He nods. She thinks it is sentimentalism, but really it’s just the Holmes version of hope. If Sherlock came back, he’d prefer to find his flat unaltered and ready to move back in.

*

Home again, he finds himself to be in a position of unclear priorities - something that hasn’t happened to him before. Sherlock has always been his priority number two (number one being at first his career and then Queen and Country). Now that the Sherlock priority has - resolved itself, he feels unable to replace it with one of the minor priorities (such as his own health and wellbeing).

Therefore, he decides to invent an entirely new priority which would not have offended his brother: He dedicates himself to Sherlock’s friends (beyond necessity that is).

Times that have been filled with his brother - meeting him, or carefully planning meetings, or keeping the damages to a minimum – are now filled with studying Detective Inspector Lestrade, Doctor Watson and Missus Hudson. He has cameras installed in their apartments, and an assistant for each of them, who is to monitor them while he works. He decides to go after that sniper for John Watson’s sake, starting with a file full of shoulders and jackets and backs of heads and a 13% possibility that there has never even been one.

“The bathroom, Sir?” Armanda asks when he introduces her to the screens showing John Watson’s new flat, and he hears the unspoken _isn’t this going a little too far_?

“Yes. The bathroom is more intimate and therefore statistically likely to be chosen as a place for suicide. Please contact me if Doctor Watson enters the bathroom with a weapon of any kind.”

Mycroft likes to think of himself as a representative. Sherlock used to watch over his friends, and now that he can’t, Mycroft took over. He doesn’t spy. He worries. Constantly.


End file.
